WHEN THEY PULLED up to Pudge’s house, there was an unmarked police sedan in the driveway and the lights were on. Pudge frowned and Willoughby explained, “I gave your keys to the technical boys. They’re setting up the recording device and installing a few extension phones. Woody will be doing the talking but all three of us will be listening to everything that is said. We’ll have a quality recording but I still want everyone’s impressions on how Bellows sounds. We’ll compare notes afterwards. Questions?” “Yeah,” said Pudge, “do we have to share the burgers?”
When they walked in, the technicians were packing up their gear and gave Willoughby a thumbs up. Pudge pretended to resist as Willoughby took one of the bags and held it up in front of the technicians. The detective grinned and said, “Thanks, boys. Little Tavern – enjoy the ride home.”
Pudge looked past the PBRs in the refrigerator and found three cans of soda. As they sat at the kitchen table, the miniature cheeseburgers on tiny dinner rolls disappeared from the white bag and no one was talking until Willoughby suppressed a burp, wiped his mouth and mustache with a napkin and began. “Woody, this will be your show but like any good performance, the rehearsal’s the key to successful execution. There are some things I want you to say and a few questions to ask. We can write them down now or I can prompt you as we go along.”
“I’ll look to you for guidance, detective, but would prefer to be able to glance at them on paper. Less chance for a screw up.” Woody took a bite of his third miniature cheeseburger and then stopped. When he started to peel back the top of the roll to look inside, Pudge waived him off. Still chomping away, the Irishman managed to laugh and say, “Just eat’em, kid. Don’t spoil the mystery.”
BELLOWS ANSWERED HIS phone at 8:00 sharp. His tone was polite and deferential, as if Helga Dumont would be listening in and would be grading his performance. He recognized Woody Meacham’s voice abruptly ask, “Are you going to make an offer? Let’s not waste time.” Willoughby had emphasized to Woody that it was critical that he take charge immediately, keeping Bellows off-balance and reactive.
“Yes,” said Bellows, “the Dumonts have decided to make an offer.” Bellows was choking on the dollar amount and hesitated. “Well, what is it?” Woody demanded, warming to his role and sounding annoyed.
“$250,000, take it or leave it,” said Bellows. “It can be delivered in a few days.”
Willoughby had anticipated that a sizeable amount would be offered and had prepared Woody with instructions on how to respond. Woody glanced at Willoughby who pointed at the paper and clenched his fist, a signal to sound resolute.
“Listen, Bellows, I want the money in tens and twenties, unmarked, with no sequential serial numbers. Any suspicion that the bills have been tampered with and the money can be traced means the deal’s off. Am I clear?”
“I understand. Can I contact you at the bar to arrange the exchange?” Bellows asked, now resigned not to argue any details. “Stay away from Pudge McFadden’s if you value your health, Bellows. I’ll call you at home in two days – same time – with final instructions,” Woody said fiercely.
“Okay, no need to threaten me. Sounds like we have a suitable resolution. I’ll –” Bellows started to talk but Woody interrupted him. “I am curious, Bellows, so indulge me for a few minutes longer. Was Scatcherd’s death really an accident? When he came to me at the bar, he was like a frightened child. Do you know what it’s like when customers get a few drinks in them? They open up to their bartender, sort of like they would to a priest or a lawyer. Talk among the regulars was that Scatcherd wasn’t just disliked but that people had it in for him and might do him bodily harm.”
There was silence on the other end as Bellows tried to decide if he should respond or say nothing at all. He was exhausted by the whole affair of the photographs and couldn’t resist the opportunity to vent his frustration. “Scatcherd was a clumsy oaf and bitter about life. He was a lousy shake-down artist, if that was his objective. Yes, I think he tripped and fell down the stairs. If he hadn’t, he would probably have eventually given the photographs back and I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. But what does it matter? Is that all?”
Willoughby was rapidly twirling his hand in a circle as a signal for Woody to end the conversation. “No, that’s it, Bellows. As I said, just curious and, for the record, I don’t give a damn either. Now, just be prepared for our next call.”
Everyone waited to hang up until they heard Bellows click off. Pudge was the first to speak. “Nice touch at the end, kid. Bellows has to believe now, if he didn’t earlier, that you are a cold, mercenary son of a bitch.” Pudge wondered why Willoughby had urged Woody to provoke, even bait the archivist. He didn’t say anything, assuming that the detective had his reasons.
Willoughby nodded and said, “Yeah, you did good, son. Clearly, the Dumonts are desperate to get their hands on the photographs and it sounds like Bellows, even if he doesn’t like it, has accepted his role as messenger boy. Now, you will be staying here at Pudge’s for the next few days so don’t argue with me. It’s precautionary, that’s all. You can go back to your apartment tomorrow during the day with Pudge to grab some things. I think we’re all set for tonight.”
After Willoughby left, Pudge looked at his temporary roommate with a quizzical expression. “Hey, is your stomach feeling funny?” Woody nodded yes, and Pudge said, “I’ll get the Pepto Bismol.”
SIEGFRIED SAT OUTSIDE Woody’s darkened apartment for a few hours, almost certain that he would not find him there. No lights were on and he saw nothing move past the windows. He was convinced that the photographs were not inside, or they would probably have been found when Helga’s henchmen rampaged through the place. Smart kid to stay away until he has the money, he said to himself. It would be foolish to underestimate him as the end game drew near.
BELLOWS’ CALL TO Helga was brief. The money needed to be assembled as instructed and they had a deal. After she hung up with Bellows, she left a message for Siegfried at the New York number.
WILLOUGHBY’S STOMACH WAS bubbling like an erupting volcano on the ride home. He would get no sympathy from his wife if he told her about the Little Tavern and wondered what home-cooked meal he had missed. Despite his gastronomical discomfort, Willoughby was feeling good about his “non-investigation” into Scatcherd’s death. With the Bellows recording in hand, he would make his ultimate move in the morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
A Time To Sing?
AS THE DAY for the move to the new Maryland warehouse was fast approaching, everyone in the archives office was summoned to work on Saturday. Before Viola Finch left for work, she rushed about the apartment to ensure that her invalid mother had all the day’s necessities within reach.
Theda Finch had worked on the assembly line at the Torpedo Factory during the war, a real-life “Rosie The Riveter”, proud to be doing her part for the country after her husband left to fight and die in Europe, making the ultimate sacrifice thousands of miles from his native West Virginia. On the outskirts of Saint-Avold in Eastern France, Brady Finch had a cross bearing his name at the Lorraine American Cemetery, one of over 10,000 U.S. soldiers buried there.